Chapter 1
The day I went to the city hall with Yverson Guerin was the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth lunar month.
There were only forty-eight hours left before my mom's ultimatum: "If you don't bring home a husband, don't even think about stepping through the door."
For him, I skipped out on friends' get-togethers and passed up a promotion at work, just to make sure he had something warm to eat when he was stuck working late.
My mom said I'd lost my mind.
But I'd already been on eighteen blind dates, and honestly, I was exhausted.
Yverson was number eighteen, and he was good-looking. I really thought he was the one.
Right before the official seal was about to be stamped on our marriage certificate, Yverson's phone rang.
It was his childhood friend—the one who always says she's depressed—standing out in the cold on the rooftop for half an hour.
Yverson's expression shifted dramatically. He pushed his chair back and stood up.
Yverson said, "Vivian's having a rough time right now. You're an adult, you should understand."
"We'll get the certificate on this same day after the New Year. Just trust me, alright?"
He left me standing there, facing the awkward looks from the staff and the blatant pointing fingers and gossip from everyone around.
My phone buzzed with a follow-up text from him: "Don't throw a fit. The wedding's pushed back two weeks. I have to stick with her."
I stared at the date on the screen, but for once, I didn't freak out like I usually did.
I took a deep breath and scrolled through my contacts, pulling up the number I'd labeled as "Match #1."
The staff member asked carefully, "Ma'am, are you still going to use your slot today?"
I fired off a quick text message.
Then I looked up, keeping my cool, and said, "Yes, we're still going ahead. Just wait a bit—the groom will be here soon."
My phone screen lit up with an instant reply.
Just one word: "Coming."
......
Ten minutes later, a man in a black coat stepped inside.
"Nikola," he said, his voice steady.
I looked up, meeting his eyes.
It was Cyrille Salvastre, standing right there.
He was my very first blind date, and the only guy who, even after I turned him down, kept sending me a "Good morning" text every single week.
For a whole year.
The staff member glanced at him, then at me, with a look of disbelief.
"So... who is this?" the staff member asked.
"My groom for today," I replied.
Cyrille didn't say a word. He just took off his coat, revealing a white shirt that matched mine.
He sat down beside me as if it was the most natural thing in the world, then gently enveloped my hand in his warm grasp.
"Did you bring your documents?" he asked.
I nodded and pulled my ID from my bag.
He handed over his own as well.
Everything moved along as usual.
When it was time for the photo, the photographer told us to get closer.
Cyrille slipped his arm around my waist, gently pulling me toward him.
His unfamiliar masculine presence enveloped me, and I felt a bit uneasy.
He seemed to notice, and his grip tightened around me.
"Smile, Nikola," he said softly.
"Today's our wedding day."
The official seal came down with a dull thud.
Two red marriage certificates were handed to us.
Just like that, I became Mrs. Salvastre.
As we walked out of the city hall, a blast of cold wind made me shiver.
Only then did it dawn on me—how ridiculous all of this was.
Today, I married a man I'd only seen three times in my life.
My phone buzzed again, right at the worst possible moment.
It was Yverson.
"Nikki, Vivian's asleep now. I'll come pick you up, and we can go to your favorite hot pot place. Don't be upset, alright?"
His tone was coaxing, certain I'd still be there waiting for him.
I'd waited for him like that countless times before.
But today, I was done waiting.
I hung up on him.
He called right back, and I'd had enough—I was about to switch my phone off.
But Cyrille reached over and took my phone from me.
He answered the call and put it on speaker.
Yverson's voice came through the speaker.
"Nikola, don't be unreasonable. I told you, we'll sort it out after the New Year..."
"She's busy," Cyrille cut him off coldly.
There was a moment of silence on the other end.
A few seconds later, Yverson's voice turned wary.
"Who the hell are you?" Yverson demanded.
Cyrille shot me a look, lifted the phone to his lips, and spoke—clear and deliberate.
"I'm her husband."
He finished, then hung up, blocked, and deleted the number—done in one swift move.
Then he handed my phone back to me.
"Alright, he won't bother you anymore," Cyrille said.
I looked at him, my heart a mess of emotions.
"Cyrille, why... why did you do this for me?" I asked.
'Why would he agree to such a ridiculous request?' I wondered to myself.
Cyrille started the car, and the heater kicked in, filling the cabin with warmth.
He didn't look at me—just stared straight ahead.
"Because I need a wife," he said.